


Red Sky at Night

by Fossarian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Marriage Law Challenge, Post-War, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fossarian/pseuds/Fossarian
Summary: The Ministry has stepped in and married Purebloods and Muggle-borns in an effort to revitalize the wizarding population. Hermione is still recovering from her experiences in the War and now must learn to live with a very different Draco Malfoy.





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione spent a lot of time hiding in her own house. 

It wasn’t that she was unwelcome, exactly, it was just that what the Malfoys considered hospitable was a good deal frostier than she was accustomed to. Narcissa was still recovering from the loss of her great name and greater wealth and she seemed to hold Hermione, in some indirect way, responsible for their current lot in life. Hermione could have told her she didn’t expect to be married to her son, either. Not after everything she’d done and had been through. Not after everything she’d thought she had earned. 

She was beginning to learn that the wizarding world had, like the Malfoys, an entirely different notion about what was owed. 

Malfoy, surprisingly, placed it into the right context for her. 

“You didn’t really believe all that junk about equality, did you?” 

He blew a ploom of smoke over Hermione’s head. This was a courtesy Hermione would have thought him incapable of before this month. There was a space between their house and the shed and that was where Malfoy liked to hide so he could smoke, a habit he seemed to have picked up on one of his many mysterious trips to Bulgaria. Hermione stood at the edge of the house, having appointed herself as watchman. Looking out for a another rebellious young man who wouldn't thank her for the trouble. It seemed some habits died hard. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Hermione said. She had come out here with the intention of relaying Narcissa’s message about tending to the flowerbeds. Hermione had dearly wanted to tell her to tend to them herself, but she had bit her tongue on it and said she would find Draco instead. She resorted to this tactic to avoid unpleasantries quite a bit, actually. 

“It’s all over your face.” Malfoy smiled humorlessly at her. “You can’t believe that they’d do this to you, after it all. What kind of reward is this for the great followers of Harry Potter? Dumbledore’s barely cold in his grave.” 

In the five years since having left school Malfoy had changed very little except for a certain fatigue that darkened the shadows under his eyes and stooped his thin, aristocratic shoulders. But that mocking smile was the same. Hermione knew almost nothing about him, but it was still more than she had known before she had come here. And she knew Malfoy was different in some fundamental way that was not good. Not good for anybody. 

“I’m just trying to adjust,” Hermione said. 

Malfoy took another drag on his cigarette and turned his head, and Hermione assumed that meant she was dismissed. She started to turn when he said, “It won’t be so bad with me. They could have married you to someone much worse.” 

He seemed to be trying to convince himself of this. 

“I know,” Hermione said. She turned and walked back into the house. 

It was not much larger than the shed, but it was clean and warm. Narcissa sat at the table staring out at the gray sea just a few hundred yards beyond their house. She was there everyday, so still she might have been turned to stone. A cup of untouched tea sat cooling on the table. 

Hermione went over to the kitchen stove. “Do you want me to boil more water?” she said. 

“No thank you, dear,” Narcissa said. She never accepted anything Hermione offered and Hermione understood this, too, as a rejection. 

But Hermione had already dealt with one difficult mother in the face of Molly Weasley and Narcissa was far less expressive in her displeasure, so Hermione simply set the pot on the stove and began heating water for herself. She kept thinking about what Malfoy had said. It was like he wasn’t surprised by any of this. It made her wonder if there wasn’t something to what people like the Malfoys had said back in those old days, after all. About blood and the dangers of being a hypocrite. 

That thought, like many she had now, would have scandalized her friends. 

The Ministry had given itself a lot of temporary powers that had proven not to be temporary in the slightest. Harry had spoken out against it. Once the government gets control, he had said, they wouldn't give it back. Everyone agreed about that now, saying they’d “known all along,” but Hermione couldn’t recall too many dissenting voices at the time. Harry had. Because Harry always had a knack for spotting trouble. But nobody had listened to him, either. 

The Malfoys, she was sure, were against the marriage law as well. But they, like most of the old families, had been rendered largely mute by a public out for revenge. The Ministry had confiscated Malfoy Manor and they would have robbed the Malfoys of their gold, too, but Lucius was smart enough to keep all his real assets safely in the hands of the goblins. And that was where it stayed. 

“If we took it out, even a Knut, it would be confiscated,” Malfoy had told her. One of the few bits of information he had bestowed freely. Perhaps he had been embarrassed when Hermione had seen the house. She’d certainly been surprised. 

Malfoy was not a man who talked finances with his wife, but he’d explained enough that Hermione could piece together the rest. She knew Malfoy went on long trips across the sea transporting goods to contacts he’d made at Durmstrang. But that was all she knew. She suspected to know more was to put herself in jeopardy with the law. 

Lucius had passed away a year before. Poor health, they said, but what Hermione really thought he’d suffered from was a broken spirit. His great family empire had shattered to dust around his feet. It might have gone that way even if he’d sided with Dumbledore, instead. Who knows? Hermione was haunted by the idea that it didn’t matter, none of it had. 

When Malfoy had told his mother how he planned to make the family fortune back, she’d gone white. “Trade,” she had said, as though Malfoy had recommended they join a troupe of street performers. 

“It’ll have to do,” he had said blithely. With that, he put his hat on his head, kissed his mother on the cheek, and left the next day for Albania. To Hermione he’d simply told her to owl if there were any problems. 

There hadn’t been, and Hermione spent the first two weeks of her marriage with Malfoy’s mother. 

Now Malfoy was back “for a few days,” but he said that might change, and so both Hermione and Narcissa treated him as though at any moment he might disappear. That may have explained why he spent so little time with either of them.

Leaving his boots on the stone steps outside, Malfoy entered the house. He didn’t smell like smoke at all - he must have performed a charm, Hermione thought, not sure how she felt about keeping Malfoy’s secrets. It seemed like nobody talked about anything here. 

It was remarkable the change that came over Narcissa when Malfoy walked into a room. It was like the light came back. 

She stood a little straighter in her seat, her eyes widening with interest as they fell on her only son and heir. “Draco,” she said, voice slightly raised in excitement, “whatever are you doing outside? It’s quite cold out, do sit down by the fire.” 

Hermione noted with some humor that Narcissa hadn’t fussed about _her_ being outside moments ago. 

Malfoy shrugged and walked towards the stove. “You wanted me to take care of the yard while I was here, didn’t you?” 

“That can wait, of course,” Narcissa said faintly. “Perhaps when you’ve rested…” She watched Malfoy pick up the steaming pot of water from the stovetop and rummage in the cupboards for a cup. “You should let your wife do that. Hermione -” she said with a sudden severity that made Hermione jump. 

“I’ve made my own tea before,” Malfoy said with a patience that suggested he’d long learned how to deal with his mother. 

“I don’t mind,” Hermione said, rising to her feet uncertainly. 

“Sit down,” Malfoy said. 

Hermione sat and hunched back over her tea. She wondered if she would ever stop feeling like a guest in her own home. Probably not as long as Narcissa Black Malfoy remained the undisputed matriarch of their little hovel. She stared out the window at the sea. 

Her life had turned so surreal. Sometimes she wondered how she could possibly ever explain any of this to anyone not part of this world. Her parents would never understand. Or, worse, they would see the wizarding world all too clearly for what it was, and insist she come home. Hermione wasn’t sure she would have refused them. 

It won’t be so bad, she told herself. Malfoy wasn’t the horror story she’d flattered herself he would be. He was just a man who’d been forced into these circumstances the same as her. As hundreds of witches and wizards had. 

Despite Hermione’s best efforts she couldn’t block out Narcissa’s voice. “You look ever so tired, my dear,” she said. “Are they feeding you on those awful ships? Are you sleeping enough?” 

“Enough,” Malfoy said. He tolerated Narcissa’s fussing over his hair and scooped out two spoons of sugar from the pot on the table. 

Clearly not satisfied with this response, Narcissa said, “Why don’t I make your favorite dinner tonight? You will be home that long, surely?”

“It’s hard to tell, mother. I wouldn’t trouble yourself.” 

Hermione watched this exchange and had to admit Narcissa’s concern was warranted. Malfoy had lost weight since Hermione had stood in front of a judge with him several weeks ago. Perhaps he got sea sick. 

In the harsh daylight filtering in through the glass windows, there was little hiding how tired Malfoy looked. He was paler than usual and his gray eyes were often distant, as if his thoughts were miles away. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to touch him, but she was glad he had Narcissa to worry about him. It relieved her the job of doing so. She couldn’t imagine a day would ever come when this all felt normal. But this was her life now. 

Dinnertime came and went and Malfoy never did allow Narcissa to make him anything. Hermione didn’t bother to offer. If he wasn’t taking his mother’s cooking he wasn’t going to consider hers. She and Narcissa shared a loaf of bread and cheese between the two of them, and Malfoy eventually retreated to the chair beside the fire where he quickly fell asleep. 

“He barely ate at all,” Narcissa said through thin lips, as if it were Hermione’s fault. But Hermione understood that Narcissa was simply angry at the world right now, at everything that had led up to this point and her son in that chair, working himself to exhaustion. 

“I’m sure he’ll be hungry in the morning,” Hermione said. She was losing her appetite as she spoke. Narcissa had a way of making you feel guilty for doing perfectly normal things. 

“Yes, let us hope,” Narcissa said prayerfully. 

Hermione excused herself to bed when she could endure Narcissa’s company no longer. There was a loft and that was where she and Malfoy slept. Narcissa promised she would wake him and send him up and Hermione said “yes, all right,” as if she had a choice. She tried to believe that she was just imagining a certain weighty meaning to her mother-in-law’s voice. 

She didn’t bother to change into a nightgown, she just lay on her side in her day clothes. She’d have to wash and switch them out tomorrow so Narcissa didn’t make some thinly veiled comment about her hygiene habits. But she didn’t want to undress in the loft if Malfoy was coming up. 

A moment later he did; still mostly asleep he stumbled across the floorboards to the bed and lay down beside her. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she felt him turn around, his back to her, and heard the slow rhythm of his breathing. 

Not that it mattered if she walked around starkers in front of him, she thought, surprised at her own bitterness. He never made her do anything, even that first night. She kept waiting for it and it never happened, and now she was beginning to feel like a fool and wonder what was so wrong with her that he didn’t try to kiss her. Or - or anything else. 

That was the point to all this, after all, wasn’t it? That was why the government had stepped in and rearranged their lives? Hermione was finding it difficult to see how this was any different than what Voldemort had advocated for. 

_There’s no great mystery here, you idiot, he’s just not attracted to you._ The thought had been hovering in her mind since day one. Since even before that, because Malfoy had always had little compunction about expressing his distaste for Hermione in their school days. She wished she could have back the days when being called a Mudblood was the most dramatic thing to happen to her. 

When she woke a few hours later, Malfoy was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

This was the longest Malfoy had been away yet. 

Thankfully, Narcissa wasn’t the sort to seek out interactions with people she didn’t care for, so Hermione was pretty well left to her own devices. She had a feeling that if she’d been married into the Weasley household that she’d still have an urge to seek out solitude. 

Not, she hastened to correct herself, that she missed Draco in any way. She barely knew him and what she did was odious to her. That he’d been tolerable, even kind, in a sort of distant, resigned way, didn’t mean a thing. Obviously it was just so he didn’t have to deal with her more than he had to. 

Hermione had sat down with her morning cup of tea when there was a gentle rap on the windowpane. A large eagle owl peered at her, a letter attached to one of his legs. She recognized him as Malfoy’s own owl, Pollux. It looked cold outside as the wind blew the owl’s feathers up. 

Hermione quickly opened the window and Pollux hopped onto the table. “A missive from our esteemed lord?” Hermione said, taking the rolled parchment from the owl. Having no interest in Hermione’s self-pitying comments, Pollux took flight before Hermione could even give him a thank-you pat.

The letter probably wasn’t even for her, but as Narcissa had left without telling Hermione where or when she would return (apparently a family trait) Hermione unrolled the parchment. Her eyebrows raised in surprise as the first word was addressed to her: 

_Hermione._

She was still getting used to him addressing her by her first name. She unfurled the rest of the page and her eyes quickly jumped to the next line:

_I’ve enclosed the rent._

_Draco_

That was it. 

It felt like she’d just been punched. She laughed, she laughed or she would have cried. Why was she disappointed? Had she actually expected some sort of overture of friendship? Maybe she was just bored. Yes, that had to be it. Unlikeable as Malfoy may be, Hermione could admit at least to herself that he was not completely stupid. She wouldn’t have minded a longer note, was all. Something about the weather in Kiev, perhaps. 

Malfoy was quieter than Hermione remembered from their school days. He’d always competed against Harry for everyone’s attention back then. If it meant he had to be cruel to someone weaker than him, so be it. 

Sometimes he was funny, though. Not in a goofy “look at me balance this spoon on my nose” sort of way, but the kind of acid-tongued wit that made you blink in surprise and search your mind for a comeback that was its equal. Hermione had never been good at that. Ron and Harry usually could carry their own with Malfoy. Hermione was reduced to slapping him. 

One night Hermione had somehow gotten roped into discussing the various merits of the boys of each House with Parvati and Lavender Brown and she had said, quite surprising herself, “What about Malfoy?”

Lavender, quick when it came to the intricate motivations of the female mind, said, “What about Malfoy? Shouldn’t you hate him? He called you a -” 

“Shh, shh!” Parvati flapped a hand at Lavender’s face. “Don’t say it!” 

“Well, I do,” Hermione said hastily. “Hate him, I mean. I thought we were just going off looks?” 

“Well, let’s not be so shallow,” Lavender sniffed, taking the moral high ground. “What about the whole package? Do you really like Malfoy?” She stared at Hermione with interest and Hermione felt her face going red. 

“No, of course not.” 

“So you just want to do him,” Lavender said with a bluntness that humbled Hermione in her lack of experience with such matters. 

“I, well -” Hermione faltered. 

“You can say it,” Lavender said. “I’m just surprised, is all. He’s caught up in all that darkness.” 

Hermione was getting irritated now and she rose to her feet, intent on making a dignified retreat. “I just thought this was a game.” 

Hermione could not recall what she had said to get out of that situation. She remembered being worried for some time afterwards that Lavender and Parvati would blab what she had said all around the school until Malfoy was sure to hear it. He probably had, given what a cesspool of gossip the girls dormitory had been. Probably had a good laugh about it with his friends. Or worse, was disgusted by the very thought. 

Hermione crumpled Malfoy’s note up in her hand. _Shouldn’t you hate him?_

Yes, by God, she did. How nice it must be to run off to the sea and leave all these tiresome women behind! That was probably what he thought. 

He had attached a check written in his loopy, elegant script. But the account name was not his. It belonged to someone called Warren Wimmler. 

For all she knew, she was an accessory to a crime. What kind of wife didn’t know what her husband did for a living? Hermione stared at Malfoy’s handwriting for a long time, imagining him hunched over a desk with a quill, dashing the numbers off as an afterthought; a brief interruption in his adventures. 

Yes, they _do_ have to eat, don’t they, the thought must have occurred amidst his revels. Don’t want the half-breed getting too skinny. Especially if he was to get her pregnant. 

It was getting harder to find reasons not to cry. When the tears began to really fall of course that was when Narcissa chose to walk back into the house, sliding off her gloves with an elegant motion. “Hermione,” she said with a frown; it was strange to hear concern in her voice, at least when it was directed at Hermione - “whatever are you upset about?” Her eyes widened. “Is Draco -” 

“No, no,” Hermione said, “he’s fine. He’s just sent us some money.” She stood up and tried to hand the check to Narcissa. “Do you want to deliver it to the bank? I’m sure you know where it’s supposed to go.” 

But Narcissa eyed the slip of paper as though it were poisonous. “No, that’s quite all right, dear,” she said, walking around Hermione to get to the chair by the hearth. “I’m sure my son meant for you to do it.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mind doing it,” Hermione said, sensing she had made some grievous social error. Another one. “I just thought -” 

Narcissa fixed her with a patronizing smile. “Yes, I’m sure he meant for you to take care of it. It’s a wife’s business, you know, what to do with her husband’s money.”

On some intellectual level, Hermione was fascinated by these little peculiarities in private wizarding households. Were the Weasleys so fussy? In some ways, yes. In some ways, they were worse, because they gave you the illusion of being more open-minded about Muggles and Muggle-borns. Harry said that, for all their seeming warmth, it was actually quite hard to break into that clan.

At least with Narcissa, you knew where you stood. 

“I’ll go now, then,” Hermione said, not sure she liked the tremor in her own voice. 

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Narcissa said placidly as she peeled off her cloak. Hermione hadn’t asked for permission but it felt like Narcissa was granting it. 

Narcissa was, even at middle age and a widow, a strikingly beautiful woman. She had a sleek elegance to her that came from being born into her station in life and nothing, not the deprivation of her wealth and home, or the loss of her husband, could take that away. She was a Black and that still meant something to the wizards of England, no matter what else they said about everyone being the same. 

Hermione knew it was true as she stood there, her hair uncombed and wearing two-day-old robes. 

She didn’t know why but she wished Malfoy was here. He was a good buffer during times like this, always distracting his mother by his presence. Hermione felt like she was going to cry again. 

She turned so Narcissa wouldn’t see - although Hermione wasn’t sure Narcissa cared - and grabbed her cloak off the hook near the door. “I’ll be back soon,” she said, throwing the hood up over her head. 

She thought about Disapparating to Gringotts but decided she would walk. It was only a few miles and it would diminish the time she had to spend with her mother-in-law. They lived above a village that seemed to exist somewhere between the Muggle world and the wizarding and she wasn’t sure you could find it on a map, or that the people who lived here were entirely oblivious to the small magic that went on around them daily. It was more like a polite custom to simply ignore it. 

Hermione walked down the hilltop and onto the cobbled street below. The air was chill off the sea and even in the summer Hermione imagined you still needed a cloak. Malfoy probably took this way to the docks. Or maybe he just Disapparated and didn’t bother with the scenery. 

Hermione skirted the main street and walked along the maze-like path through the alleys. She didn’t like talking to people that much these days. In the books she had read about the “Dark Days,” they said you didn’t talk to strange witches and wizards because you never knew who was working for You-Know-Who. Hermione thought they should make an addendum to those books about how it was good policy to avoid Ministry officials, as well. 

The walk had distracted her from her tears, the wind having dried them on her cheeks. She was in a much better mood by the time she got to Diagon Alley. When she saw a familiar redhead towering above the shoppers on the street, her spirits lifted a bit more. 

“Hello,” Hermione said, waving at him when she got close enough. 

“Hermione!” Ron smiled at her and quite before Hermione knew what he was about, he embraced her, almost lifting her off her feet. He hugged for a moment longer than Hermione knew was appropriate for friends and he only let her go when she drew back first. 

“How are you? Are you okay?” He searched her face and his eyes ran down her body as if checking for injuries. 

“I’m fine,” Hermione said as she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. Malfoy wasn’t like _that_ , she wanted to say. 

“Really?” Ron said. For some reason the skepticism in his voice sparked her irritation. 

“Yes, really,” she said. “It - it hasn’t been so bad.” God, she sounded pathetic. 

“Well, that’s good,” Ron said. He seemed at a loss for what to say. Drumming his fingers on his belt, he said, “Lavender’s in there” - he jerked his head at Madame Malkin’s - “has to have a new gown for this Ministry function.” He rolled his eyes as if to invite Hermione to share in these feminine frivolities. 

At one time she would have. But she was older now, and maybe it was that, or maybe she was no longer comfortable in sneering at fellow women behind their backs. Especially when she wouldn’t have said no to a new gown, either. 

“Well, of course,” Hermione said, smiling and hoping it didn’t look too forced. “She wants to look good for you, I’m sure. I heard you were promoted!” 

She was genuinely happy for Ron. Even if she didn’t think he was really suited to be an Auror, even if she would always think he did it because Harry did it. It wasn’t a bad career choice, nothing to sniff at - even if Hermione couldn’t help feeling that doing anything for the Ministry right now was akin to condoning their actions. Considering she had no career of which to speak of at the moment and couldn’t even blame the Malfoys for that, she kept such thoughts to herself. Narcissa would probably be grateful if she had a job and got out of the house. 

“Yes,” Ron said, going red around the ears. 

“I guess risking your life is worth something, isn’t it?” If that sounded bitter, well. Hermione was starting to feel sick to her stomach. The effort to fake normalcy, perhaps. It never did agree with her, especially when she was so bad at it. 

“I just didn’t think when I did it. I guess that’s the key to bravery.” He was joking, Hermione knew, that charming self-deprecation that she’d always found attractive in him and also exasperating. Had he been there, Malfoy would have taken that comment and run with it. _Oh yes, Weasley, I always did say the Gryffindor attributes were all brawn and no brain. And you certainly exemplify that._

Really, if they had not been in two rival Houses, Hermione could see Malfoy and Ron getting on. Both of them never quite feeling they got their due, combatting it with sarcasm, indifference, and rage. 

If this, if that… Seemed like her whole life was defined by that word. 

“Well, I’d like to talk but I have to go to Gringotts,” she said, inching away from him. 

“I could walk with you,” Ron offered eagerly, taking a step towards her. “Lavender will be in there forever.” 

This notion didn’t sit right with Hermione, however. As much as she had missed Ron. “No, please don’t,” Hermione said. At the faint look of hurt on Ron’s face, she hastened to add, “It’s just a dull chore.” She glanced into the window of Madame Malkin’s and saw Lavender pirouetting in front of the mirror; she looked beautiful in a floor-length, glittering gown the color of her namesake. 

“You should go in there,” Hermione said, pointing to the shop. “I bet she’d love to show you what she’s trying on.” She reached up and hugged Ron quickly, catching a whiff of his cologne. “We’ll get together soon.” 

She turned and walked quickly away, blending into the crowd with the expertise of a double agent. She felt in that moment she would only find peace if she never saw Ron’s face again. 

Her heart pounding, she ran the last stretch to Gringotts, hiking her skirt above her ankles as she took the steps two at a time to the Gringotts entrance. The goblin at the door gave her a rather severe look for her impropriety. 

She tried to compose herself as she waited in line, patting her hair down. Damn Malfoy. If he hadn’t foisted this errand upon her she wouldn’t have seen Ron and looked like mess. 

When it was her turn she stepped up to the grated window where a goblin stood behind a desk. “I’d like to deposit this into my account, please,” Hermione said.

He plucked the check from her hands with two long, taloned fingers. Examining it with a level of scrutiny Hermione tried not to find insulting, he grunted, “All in good order with Mr. Wimmler, then?” 

“Oh! Uh, yes?” Hermione said. “I think so, he sent it to -” 

“That’s fine,” the goblin said, and placed the check in a brass slot where it disappeared with a whoosh. 

“You’ll see your account is up to date now. Next!” 

Hermione backed out of the line. As she turned she saw a woman smirking at her a few rows away. Hermione self-consciously tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Pansy?” she said. 

“Granger,” Pansy Parkinson said. 

Hermione walked over to the line Pansy was in. “It’s been a long time, hullo.” 

“Not really,” Pansy said and Hermione was sure she meant “not long enough.” 

Pansy’s hair was longer and she seemed to have gained some weight, but it suited her figure and had lent a softness to her face. She had always had a hard look about her to Hermione’s eyes, but then so did most of the Slytherins. They were a tough, close-lipped lot.

“How are you?” Hermione said. 

“As well as can be expected shackled to a half-breed as I am,” Pansy said cheerfully. “That’s him, over there,” she said, pointing to the entrance where a man stood leaning against a pillar. 

“Justin! Oh,” Hermione said. “Were you two already dating or…?” 

Pansy snorted in a most unladylike manner. “Are you mad? Of course not.” 

“Well, Justin isn’t so bad,” Hermione said. “He was always nice to me.” 

“Says you,” Pansy said. “Would the Ministry had seen sense and just paired people up based on their personalities, regardless of blood. I see now what your lot was prattling on about this whole time.” She flicked her hair like an irritated pony. “Draco and I always did get on well.” 

Hermione somehow doubted that. Malfoy had treated Pansy rather awfully when they were dating in school, if you could even call it that. The relationship had always had a faint taste of inequity to it. Pansy had followed Malfoy around like a servant, and Malfoy had seemed to react to it like it was only his due, when he noticed her at all. 

“Well, he’s coming home soon,” Hermione said, trying to keep the conversation civil. “I’m sure he’d like to see old House mates.” She smiled. 

Pansy looked at her like she had sprouted two heads. “He’s been here a week,” she said slowly. “Didn’t you know?” 

“What?” Hermione said. 

“In Knockturn Alley. He’s been staying at that inn.” Pansy’s sharp, dark eyes searched her face. Hermione was too much in shock and too much of a Gryffindor to think it would be better to hide her emotions. 

Pansy’s mouth curled into a smile. “He didn’t tell you,” she said, not a question. “Well, well, well. Already having troubles? That won’t matter to the Department of Internal Affairs, you know. They’ll blame you if he doesn’t want -” 

“Excuse me,” Hermione said. 

As though her limbs were operated by a puppeteer, she spun on her heel and left the bank in a stiff march. Justin Finch-Fletchley called her name but Hermione could not bear to face another figure from her past today. Pansy’s smirk was burned into her eyes, the words _he’s been here a week_ echoing on repeat in her head. Her smug knowledge. _Didn’t you know?_

He had been home, this whole time? Why? There was a buzzing like a hornet’s nest in her ears. All this time… 

Maybe Pansy was lying, or mistaken. But what if she wasn’t…? It was difficult to believe she had mistaken Malfoy for anyone else. 

Why hadn’t he come back home, if only to reassure his mother? Had he done this before? Even Hermione had started to worry a little with how long he had been gone this time, until she had gotten that letter today. _He’s been here a week._ Maybe he had never left. Did he even have a real job? Was he so repulsed by her that he couldn’t bear to - 

_He’s been here a week._

Before Hermione knew where she was going, she had Disapparated into Knockturn Alley.


	3. Chapter 3

She Apparated so hard into Knockturn Alley that she fell to her knees as she landed. Panting, she stood up unsteadily. A shawled woman sitting outside her shop stared at her wide-eyed. 

“W - where is the inn?” Hermione said 

“Which one?” the woman said. She wiped her mouth and then spat to the side of her feet. 

Hermione tried not to show her shock. “I’m not sure. How many are there? I’m looking for my husband.” She did not realize this would be an embarrassing statement to make until it was out. She must look quite a picture, windblown, dirty, and now bloody from her scrape with the cobbled path, running after a man. 

The woman, however, seemed to take it in stride. She extracted a bony finger from the inside of her shawl and pointed up the hill. “If he’s a drinking man, he’ll be there.”

Hermione could not tell the woman she had no idea if Draco was a drinking man or not. 

It was as good a place to start as any, though. She thanked the woman and started the march up the hill. There was a sign hanging above the door, but it was so weatherworn that all she could make out was the outline of a large letter G. She tried to peer into the window but they had evidently not been cleaned since Merlin drank with Arthur. 

Hermione sighed. She had been hoping she could peek in, reassure herself Malfoy was not there, and go home. 

She grasped the iron handle and yanked hard, and a rush of wind blew up behind her, making for a very dramatic entrance. Several customers looked at her but, having ascertained that she was not who they were worried about looking for _them_ , quickly returned to their own drinks and business. 

A sign above the bar read: _The Morning Glory has happily served as hearth and haven to witches and wizards since Bloody Mary’s reign. Be sure to ask about our number one hangover cure!_

“What can I get for you, girl?” the bartender asked her, looking as though he had been serving since Bloody Mary’s reign, too. 

Hermione approached the bar, trying to appear as though she frequented such establishments routinely. “I’m looking for someone,” she said. She pulled out a Sickle and handed it to him. “A butterbeer, please.” 

The bartender raised a judgemental eyebrow at her but said nothing as he began pouring a glass. Hermione took a sip of the beer he handed to her and glanced around the smoke-filled room. “I’m looking for my husband,” she said. Damn, it really didn’t get easier to say. 

“Get a lot of those,” the bartender said, apparently unaware the effect these words had on Hermione. She could only guess if he meant he had a lot of husbands as customers or wives trying to track them down. 

“What’s he look like?” 

“He’s quite pale,” Hermione said. “Almost white hair, gray eyes. You’d know him if you saw him.” 

“Oh him,” the bartender said. “Yeah, he comes in here every few weeks. Always with that odd, foreign lot.” He rolled his eyes and jerked a thumb behind his back towards a corner where several men sat taking shots. And sure enough, his back to her, was a man with silvery blond hair. 

“D - Draco?” she said, her voice coming out an octave higher than she meant it to. She stood up and approached the table. 

Didn’t exactly take command of the group with that entry. The men kept talking to each other in something that sounded to Hermione like Russian, Malfoy among them, having not noticed her at all.

The situation was so out of place; but Malfoy’s mannerisms, his control of his audience, struck a familiar chord in Hermione’s memory. Back in their school days Malfoy had held court at the Slytherin table in just that same way. He was gesturing about something with his hands, maybe engaged in a debate. Everyone seemed interested in whatever it was he was saying. 

Clearing her voice, Hermione reached out and touched his shoulder. “Draco!” 

Malfoy stopped talking and whipped his head around, his gray eyes showing surprise. But it only took one blink and all expression was removed from his face. 

“What are you doing here?” they said at the same time. 

“Looking for you,” Hermione said breathlessly. 

Malfoy frowned at her. One of the men, black-haired with heavy features reminiscent of Viktor Krum’s trademark scowl, must have asked a question because Malfoy turned to him and said, in English, “No, she’s safe.” 

He stood up, his fingers enclosing around Hermione’s arm in what may have looked proprietary but felt to Hermione a little sinister. Especially since he was holding her rather tight. He smelled like smoke and liquor. “Gentlemen,” he said, “ _eto moya zhena_ Hermione.” He looked down at her and smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “Hermione, say hello.” 

“Hello,” Hermione said stiffly. 

The black-haired man tipped his head at her, but like Malfoy, he did not seem particularly thrilled at the interruption. “Malfoy,” he said in a heavy accent, “you leave?” 

“I’m going to talk to her for a minute. Here,” he put several gold coins on the table, “buy the next round on me.” 

He steered Hermione out of the bar and if Hermione had not been so determined for an explanation she would have protested his hand on her. Or allowed sanity to take hold once again and run away. When she looked up at him she was frightened to discover he was still smiling. It was like a mask. 

He opened the door and pushed her out in front of him. The wind threw his light blond hair off his face, it was longer than when he had left. He could do with a shave and a cut, Hermione thought. And a scalding bath. He looked like he’d been through hell. There was a faint yellowish bruise, mostly healed, on his right cheek. 

“What is going on?” Hermione said. “Where have you been? Why are you here? Who are those -” 

“Relax,” Malfoy said, irritatingly calm, as though her questions were not only unwelcome but unreasonable. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his cloak and lit one with a silver lighter. The wind blew the smoke back into Hermione’s face and she coughed pointedly. 

“Don’t tell me to relax,” Hermione said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working.” 

“I am working,” Malfoy said. His heavy-lidded eyes looked down at her like she was just one more tiresome chore in a long list of them. “And despite what it looks like, you’ve interrupted a rather important business meeting.” 

Hermione pressed her lips together, trying not to explode at him. _Don’t do it, don’t say something you’ll regret. You have to live with him._

“All right,” Hermione said, trying to force some calm into her voice; it was like drawing blood from a stone. “I’m sorry, but how am I to know that? It looks like you’re drinking with a bunch of - of scallywags.” 

Malfoy snorted. “Scallywags?” he said. “What is this, the nineteenth century? But I am drinking with a bunch of _scallywags_.” He smirked at her in a way that seemed far more genuine than the frighteningly polite smile he had bestowed a few minutes ago. “But it’s also relevant to certain business ventures of mine. You’d know something about relationships if you ever pulled your head out of a book.” 

“Oh _excuse me_ ,” Hermione said, rising to the bait she knew damn well he was dangling. “I must have missed that while I was off trying to find a way to destroy a racist megalomaniac.” 

“Please,” Malfoy said. “If you hadn’t had Potter as an excuse to feel important, you would have hanged yourself over getting an ‘E’ in Potions class a long time ago.”

Hermione blinked at him in surprise. It was more words than he had directed at her in weeks - possibly years - and she was out of practice with such overt meanness. 

Malfoy pulled on his cigarette and watched her out of one eye, waiting. “Nothing?” he said. “I’m disappointed.” Hermione saw that the knuckles of his right hand were bruised as well, the same faded color as on his face.

“I will not dignify your insults with a response,” Hermione said, taking refuge in self-righteousness. She glanced down at his boots. They were well-worn, cracking at the folds. He really did work, whatever he did, she knew that despite her looking for any excuse to the contrary. Nobody would walk around this tired all the time for show.

“I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” she said. She looked back up at his face. 

“Seemed prudent,” he said, frowning at her as if unsure this sudden change in topic was a trick. “How did you find me?” 

“What does that matter?” Hermione stared past Malfoy’s shoulder at the empty street. She was finding it difficult to lie when she knew he was better at it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were home?” 

“I figured you’d be happy if I was gone longer,” he said, his frown deepening. He seemed to be wondering about her mental stability. “You got the money, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Hermione said. 

“Then what’s the problem?” he said. He really did not seem to get it. “Is it not enough? I can give you more -” 

“It’s enough,” she said, flushing with yet one more reminder that she was not pulling her own weight. 

None of this was going the way she had planned. She had not anticipated actually finding him, or finding him with such unsavory-looking characters. She had not counted on him reacting the way he had or being almost civil to her. Civil for Malfoy, anyway. 

She had almost forgotten what he looked like, that was jarring, too. She had to keep reminding herself they weren’t kids anymore. In her mind she kept thinking of him the way he had been in school, arrogant, energetic, a bit too earnest for the limelight. Now, at every confrontation with Hermione he seemed to ask himself “what’s the point?” and let her go on until she had exhausted herself, and he could leave. 

“Why won’t you tell me anything?” Hermione said. “I’ve a right to know, haven’t I? Whether you like it or not, we’re stuck together now.” 

“A fact I am acutely aware of.” 

Hermione dearly wished she could stamp her foot and not look like a petulant child for doing so. He was so difficult! She had been sure of her skills in the arena of intractable men, but that was before she had moved in with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy made Ron and Harry look like rank amateurs when it came to stubbornness. He seemed to think that Hermione knowing he paid his bills was quite enough to be getting on with, thank you, and asking quibbling matters about how he obtained the funds firmly within his purview. Not hers. 

“Has it occurred to you,” Malfoy said, “that I tell you exactly as much as you need to know?” 

“Well, that,” Hermione said, “that’s just -” 

“No, you wouldn’t see the merits of minding your own business, would you,” Malfoy said, his soft, drawling voice taking an edge Hermione did not like. 

What _did_ occur to her was that treating Malfoy like he was stupid was exactly the sort of mistake that had gotten a genius like Albus Dumbledore killed in his own school. She had really not credited Malfoy with any motive other than selfish, and he knew it. She could tell from the way he was looking at her - resigned, annoyed - that he did not find her thoughts about him very original. And why should he, when the most awful things about his family had already been said, and published in the papers. Most of wizarding Britain would be happy to see him and his mother die as paupers. 

“You don’t trust me, do you,” Hermione said. 

Malfoy found this statement so funny he laughed, and the sound echoed off the stone buildings. Hermione’s neck flushed hot. 

“I’m amazed you weren’t in Ravenclaw,” he said sarcastically. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” And he turned to go back into the inn. 

Hermione stared at him. He really did mean to leave it like that. She reacted without thinking - a bad habit she had picked up from Harry. Nonetheless she was grateful for it in times where her more instinctively fretful nature failed her.

“Wait,” she said, “wait, please,” and grasped his arm. She had not expected this to stop him and was half ready for him to fling her off into the gutter, but instead he turned and looked at her, one eyebrow cocked as if to say _well?_

Having not accounted for this plan to actually work, she did not know how to proceed with it. “I -” She had no idea what she wanted to say, what reaction she wanted from him. Why was she even trying to prolong Malfoy’s company in her presence? 

Searching her mind, she settled on the most practical matter at hand. “What do I tell your mother?” 

Something flickered across the smooth mask of Malfoy’s face, there and gone so quickly Hermione could only note it for its novelty. For a moment he had looked almost disappointed, but that couldn’t be right. Didn’t make sense. He was impossible to read. She had never met anyone who could so accurately assess the emotional vulnerability of those around him while giving up nothing of himself. 

When he smiled at her this time she had no illusions about it being kind. “Just tell her the truth,” he said and shrugged free of her grip. “That you never saw me.” 

With that, he left her standing in the street, utterly confused.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry was not as sympathetic to Hermione’s plight as she had expected. 

“I really don’t know if that’s ethical,” Harry said in an uncharacteristic retreat to the rulebook. He adjusted his spectacles, and they flashed in the hanging lights above his desk in a very Percy-like manner. 

“When has that ever stopped you?” Hermione huffed. But at Harry’s frown she realized that he was quite serious. 

“I can’t give you his records,” Harry said. “I’d lose my job.” 

Hermione thought this was a bit melodramatic. She was not aware of anybody in the wizarding world who cared so little about their popularity that they’d dare try to fire Harry Potter, beloved slayer of Dark lords and school Quidditch legend. 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t get into much trouble,” Hermione said. “If the Ministry insists on strapping Malfoy and I together, the least they could do is give me an idea of what kind of criminal he is.” 

“All those charges were dropped.” 

“Because you spoke up!” Hermione said, sloshing her cup of tea everywhere. “I’m not saying he deserved to go to Azkaban, but it isn’t like he was innocent.” 

“Are any of us innocent?” Harry asked philosophically. 

“Oh God,” Hermione said. Rolling her eyes, she took a moment to switch tact. 

This was not, as Harry supposed, a sordid attempt to reignite their childish busybody days when any mystery concerning a Death Eater’s son was warranted. She was living with Draco Malfoy! Sleeping in his bed! Or, more accurately, his cot. But who cared about that? Exactly no one, except those who delighted in seeing the great House of Black come down at last. What did the world care if Hermione was miserable? 

“Please, it’s not like you think,” she said, ashamed of the pleading in her voice but not so ashamed as to not use it. “I just want to know what I’m dealing with. _Who_ I’m dealing with.” 

Harry frowned at her, his fingers idling with a gold pen on his desk. He spun it around a few times, apparently lost in reverie. “He’s not dangerous,” he said. “Not like, you know, in a way that would hurt you.” 

Hermione could have said _You have no possible way of knowing that_ , but she stayed still and silent. Extracting information was a lot like hunting in this way. She knew she had a chance. If Harry was not interested in being convinced, he would have said no right away and changed the subject. 

“Well, what kind of way do you mean?” Hermione said, wondering just how you could be both dangerous and not exhibit the potential for harm. 

“Oh nothing,” Harry said hastily, perhaps realizing he had suggested what he was trying to deny with that statement. “I just meant that he’s not as crazy as his actions would suggest. They did an evaluation on him to see if he was sane enough to go to Azkaban when they were trying to decide what to do with him.” 

This struck Hermione as particularly absurd given that one of the main goals of the wizards’ prison seemed to be to achieve exactly that. “I wasn’t aware his mental stability was in question,” she said faintly. Maybe this foray into the Malfoy family history had been a bad idea, after all. 

“It’s not,” Harry said. 

“But it was,” Hermione said. “Right? That’s what you were saying?” 

“They do it on everybody,” Harry insisted. 

His green eyes drifted to the ceiling, as if asking the heavens what he had done to deserve this harrassment on his lunch hour. “I’m just bringing it up because the Wizengamot was a little surprised he’d orchestrated so many Unforgivables on his own. They figured he might have been under a spell. And,” Harry said with a wry little grimace, “let’s face it, Bellatrix Lestrange doesn’t exactly give them a solid history of sanity.” 

Hermione pressed her nails into the flesh of her hand. She did not want to think about that woman. “I see,” she said, momentarily losing her train of thought. “I suppose that makes sense, then.” In an absurdist way keeping with Ministry standards, she thought. 

“Drink your tea, it’s getting cold,” Harry said. 

Hermione raised her cup and took a sip just so he wouldn’t start distracting himself with concerns about her health. Once Harry got it into his head that something was his responsibility, it was hard to get him to change his mind, and then Hermione would never find out what she needed to know. 

“But he’s not,” Hermione said. “Crazy, I mean.” 

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. 

“You don’t _think_ so?”

“He’s not,” Harry said more firmly. “I just think he’s…” Again his eyes went to the ceiling for answers.

“He’s what?” Hermione said impatiently. 

“Different,” Harry said, shrugging as if he knew this was inadequate. “I think Lucius’ death sent him over the deep end for a while.” Harry tapped his pen slowly on his desk. “I ran into him the other day at the Hog’s Head. He reminded me of the way he was in sixth year. Do you remember? He looked really sick and tired all the time.” Harry’s eyes were distant. “He’s nicer than he used to be.” 

Hermione snorted. “Maybe to _you._ He still hates me.” 

“Oh come on,” Harry said, snapping out of his thoughts to grin at her. “How could he hate you?” 

But Hermione was not in the mood for Harry’s attempts at irony. “So what you’re saying is,” she said, “you can’t help me. My, my, how times do change.” 

“No, I can,” Harry said quickly, galled at her words. “I will.” 

“I thought you said you’d lose your job.”

“Well, I mean,” Harry said, “if you think it’s too risky -” 

“No, no,” Hermione said hurriedly. “I’m sure the proper authorities would understand this is a special case.” 

Because wasn’t it always when it came to Harry Potter? Hermione knew she should not be violating Ministry security and Draco’s privacy. But, well. She felt entitled to a little snooping when it was her own welfare at stake. 

Harry glanced at the door and then motioned for Hermione to shut it. Surely it was _more_ suspicious for the Chief Auror to be conducting private meetings with a civilian? But Hermione did as instructed. Harry, she found, had a unique way of making people feel that he was not bound by the same rules. Some people still believed Harry was a powerful Dark wizard himself, something that could have been remedied by spending five minutes with him and Ron on a Saturday night after a few Ogden’s Old. 

“Okay, listen,” Harry said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “If I let you see the records you have to read them here and you have to promise you’re not going to talk to anyone about them. Not even Malfoy - especially not Malfoy.” 

“Of course,” Hermione said. She had no intention of sharing her knowledge with anyone, but she also knew, such promises were easy to keep prior to the fulfillment of your desires. 

“I mean it, Hermione,” Harry said. “The only reason I’m agreeing to this at all is because I do kinda think you should know.” 

_You’ve got to know!_ croaked Barty Crouch’s voice from the past. The hairs on Hermione’s neck prickled. Draco must have taken that same awful class with the spiders. Whatever good it had done any of them. 

Hadn’t Harry said Malfoy was good at Occlumency? It, like Cruciatus, required a level of detachment from one’s emotions that Harry did not possess. Which was a good thing - wasn’t it? Hermione suppressed a shiver. She hoped Draco was not in the habit of reading minds. 

“Wait here,” Harry said and he got up and left his office, closing the door behind him. 

Hermione tapped her fingers on the porcelain teacup to keep in time with her pittering feet on the floor. She prayed Narcissa did not decide now to take an interest in her daughter-in-law’s whereabouts. It would be just Hermione’s luck if she decided to take a trip to Diagon Alley today. But Draco was home at last, so she was probably still preoccupied with him. 

Hermione had found she could not stomach his presence and left without a word. That had not been wise. She had known it at the time. It was just that, having seen Draco’s face, his smiling mouth, she had wanted to be sick. She could not sustain that level of deceit, and it came as naturally as breathing to Draco.

Harry returned with a large folder under his arm. 

“Is that all his?” Hermione said, blanching. 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “And his father’s. But mostly him.” 

Harry placed the folder on her lap. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “The Ministry thought it was a good idea to research his family history. You know, try to figure out why they sided with Voldemort.” 

“That’s easy enough,” Hermione said, flipping to the first page. “They were on top of the social hierarchy. They wanted to stay there.” 

“I think it’s more than that,” Harry said. He shrugged at Hermione’s curious look. “Just read it. I’ll come back in a bit.” And he left her with the folder. 

Hermione picked up the first page and skimmed it. A lot of it was just nonsense - rumors, complaints from crackpots who were trying to get the Malfoys to pay them off for their silence. Apparently the Auror Department had decided, in the event even one of the claims was true, to record all of it. She riffled through the pages. 

They had the extended Malfoy family tree on here, even more detailed than the tapestry hanging at Grimmauld Place. Surprisingly little was said about Bellatrix Lestrange, however. Perhaps she had her own file somewhere. 

_This is disappointing,_ Hermione thought as she flipped quicker and quicker through pages of tax records, charity grants, and Board of Governors memos; and then her gaze leapt to Draco Malfoy’s face. 

The picture was clipped to what must have originally been a separate file. The date on the front was the day after the battle at Hogwarts. Malfoy’s face was younger and still had the last fades of boyish roundness, but his eyes were blank. _We were so young, all of us,_ Hermione marveled.

She flipped to the next page and the interesting lines PREREQUISITE FOR INDICTMENT caught her eye. She started reading. 

_**Summary Report**_

_Interview length: four hours and fifty-three minutes._

_Draco Lucius Malfoy, 18, consented to take the Veritaserum of his own free will and under its influence revealed the following acts of criminal activity:_

_Cruciatus Curse and Imperius Curse used extensively for a duration of approximately 24 months. Malfoy is unclear of precise numbers and so this record remains incomplete._

_Breaking and entering, theft, illegal use of magical artefact; facilitation of murder of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Also revealed: the production and illegal use of potions (i.e., Polyjuice Potion, Alihotsy Draught, and the Dolor Diaboli)._

_By his own admission he did so WILLINGLY and not under the coercion of Imperius or other mind-altering influences. While under interrogation, Malfoy expressed no remorse for his actions. Malfoy was asked repeatedly if Thomas Marvolo Riddle alias Voldemort coerced him into using these spells. Malfoy said no. [For full transcript, see Auror Walahfrid Huxby]._

_It is clear that pressure was placed on Malfoy to perform acts for Riddle, under threat of bodily harm to himself and family members. This is corroborated by a witness, Harry James Potter._

_It is thereby deemed by this court to relinquish Draco Malfoy from all further investigations. However, he is forbidden from obtaining public office. His application for completing his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry is denied. His funds are to be freezed until the birth of his second child or his first reaches majority, whichever comes sooner. _

_This court finds his lack of remorse suspect and it is recommended that he submit to further council. We reserve the right to call him to attendance at any time, for any reason or none._

Hermione let out a breath as she finished reading. She barely knew what to think. Her eyes fell back to the page. 

There was a final line. 

_Addendum: Under the National Unity Act of 1998, it is recommended that the selection of Malfoy’s spouse also be submitted for review by this court._

And far, far below that, in what looked like a different hand and newer ink, were the words: _Malfoy’s request is approved._

Lifting her head, she stared without seeing. She picked up her teacup with a shaking hand and took a sip of it, not minding it was now cold. When Harry walked in a few minutes later, he found her still sitting that way, as if turned to petrified wood, her lips to the edge of the teacup, deep in thought. 

“Well,” he said, his hands in his pockets, “what do you say to a drink?” 

It was during times such as this that many years ago Hermione had decided Harry was a rare quality of friend and had excellent judgment in a crisis.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione was drunk. But not so drunk as to miss the unfortunate conversation taking place above her head. Of which she seemed to be the chief subject. 

“- had quite enough of this, Draco. I won’t stand for it. Not after everything you’ve been through.” 

“Mother, please. It’s very late and I don’t want to deal with any of this.” 

“Precisely my point. She’s a selfish creature, I’ve never seen the like. How dare she bring that man into our presence!” 

“Potter’s all right. He was just seeing her home, I’m sure.” 

“Do you really believe that? My God, you decide to be generous about people’s characters at the most peculiar times. It’s like that traitorous house-elf your father released. I’ll never understand why you made such a fuss -” 

“Mother, _please_.” 

Hermione was glad that she had indeed been asleep as it made it possible to continue faking it. Narcissa must have heard the same note of exhaustion in Draco’s voice as Hermione, because she mercifully shut up. But not without one last _”Never seen the like!”_ for good measure. 

Through slitted eyes, Hermione saw the warm light of the hearth fire and a small bobbing candle that illuminated the irate face of her mother-in-law, wrapped in a delicate beaded shawl. Hermione’s stomach twisted with guilt. She had perhaps been a little overzealous in her attempt to deal with the day’s discoveries. 

Harry really ought to have cut her off after that last shot of firewhiskey. Damn the man. He had the constitution of a hippogriff. 

She jumped as Draco’s face suddenly came into her blurred line of sight. “Hey,” he said. 

No use pretending to be comatose now. Thankfully, she was still a little buzzed and thus her total mortification could be delayed until the morning. But Draco was insistent and he started gently shaking her. She blinked her eyes open. 

“Up you get,” Draco said, but his voice was soft, almost soothing, in her ears. 

He leaned forward and grasped her arms. Somehow this, his lack of anger, made it all the worse. She had expected, and deserved, his total condemnation. She struggled to sit upright. 

“W - what happened? How did I get here?” she said. She looked around, but this was a mistake, and the room started tipping sideways. “Oh dear.” She pressed a palm to her mouth. 

“Are you going to be sick?” Draco said. 

Hermione shook her head, determined not to by sheer force of will. She felt awful. Not sick-awful, just stupid, and useless. Nothing Narcissa had said about her was wrong. 

“No, I’m fine.” 

“That’s debatable. You don’t remember Potter bringing you back? You were too fucked up to Apparate.” 

For the first time his tone held a note of irritation. It must be well past two o’clock in the morning. Harry would have had to wake them up. Hermione felt another wave of sickness wash over her. 

She tried to retrace her course through the day. She had gone to visit Harry, because she was upset. Because of Malfoy. 

Who was holding her upright. Hermione realized she was clinging onto to him like a bit of driftwood in a storm-tossed sea. He was shirtless, and he was very warm. Her fingers scrabbled along his back for purchase. 

“I was visiting,” she said blurrily. “Harry.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

Did he always sleep shirtless? It seemed unlikely she had not noticed this before. But then they had only slept together a few nights, and never truly _together_. In the proper sense. 

Something they would have to do eventually. 

This thought set off a chain reaction at the back of her mind. Something troubling. Why had she started drinking with Harry, anyway? She never did that. Why, the last time she had had a beer was at Ron’s wedding. She had gotten a bit carried away there, as well. Made something of a fool of herself. At least that was what Ron told her later. She really ought to stop drinking when she was upset. 

But Harry, yes. Why had she been with him? 

The folder. On Malfoy. 

Hermione blinked at the floor as Draco expertly maneuvered them towards the loft, blowing out the candle on his way. She was sobering up quickly. That summary report about Malfoy’s conduct under Voldemort… Well, she supposed she had known as much. 

But that bit at the end - whatever did _that_ mean? “Malfoy’s request is approved?” What request? Was _she_ the request? Had she really read that right? He had _requested_ to marry her - and the Ministry had approved it? She wanted to say that it made no sense. But the scary thing was that she could think of dozens of reasons why Malfoy had done it. Why the Ministry had said yes. 

“Can you climb or do you want me to Levitate you up?” Malfoy said. 

“I can climb,” Hermione said quickly, not willing to suffer the indignity of Malfoy spelling her into the air.

She took a steadying breath and grasped the handles of the ladder. Her palms were sweaty. She was aware of Malfoy behind her, he was close enough she could feel his warmth. She could feel him staring at her, too, and she wanted to ask him to stop, but she had forfeited the right to make demands. She had acted ridiculous enough tonight. 

“Do you need help,” came Malfoy’s dry tone. 

“No!” Hermione snapped. “I was just thinking of something for a moment.” 

“Okay, well,” Malfoy said. “I am a bit tired. Unlike you, I didn’t have the day open for me to get shit-faced. So if you could hustle it along…” 

Hermione startled when she felt his hands cover her own, his front pressing against her back. “Just start climbing,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.” 

To her horror, these words made her eyes prickle. She knew it was the alcohol, she was overly emotional because she had drunk too much and had stayed up too late. She had been running around all day looking for a sign that Malfoy was a bad man and she had found out more than she ever wanted to know. And she was still no closer to an answer. 

She started climbing. 

It seemed to take longer than usual, but Malfoy didn’t pressure her, just stayed close behind. When she reached the top she crawled on her hands and knees across the loft and sank gratefully into the mound of blankets. They smelled like Malfoy, and Hermione was disturbed that she even knew so intimate a detail. She felt as though slowly, inch by inch, she was becoming infected. Like being a Malfoy was a disease. 

Malfoy slid along beside her. Hermione shut her eyes, hoping he would ignore her and leave her to wither away in peace. 

There was a pregnant pause. Hermione held her breath. Sure enough - “Why were you drinking?” he said. “With Potter.” 

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. God! She was going to have to lie and she could barely remember what day of the week it was right now. 

“Something bad happen?” Malfoy said. 

_Yes, you_. 

But that was dreadful to think, let alone utter out loud. 

“It’s not anything important,” Hermione said, grasping at the edge of a coverlet to keep the world from spinning. “I’m sorry I woke you and your mother up.” 

“It’s fine,” Malfoy sighed, and he sounded so beat up it made Hermione want to scream. “I thought -” But he didn’t finish it. 

“Thought what?” Hermione said. 

“Nothing,” Malfoy muttered. Hermione opened her eyes in the dim halfight to see him running a hand over his face. She felt bad for bothering him. She _was_ a bother. 

She must have read that document wrong. He could not have asked for _her_. And if he had, well. He must really be regretting it now. 

Even in the dark, Maloy’s eyes were that curious moon lightness. Hermione had no idea what he could be thinking. After a moment he turned his head away from her. Hermione thought that was going to be the end of it. But then he turned back towards her and said, “You’re not making this very easy on yourself, you know.” 

Hermione blinked a few times. “Excuse me?” 

“You would think,” Malfoy said, in a soft, drawling voice Hermione was beginning to associate with warnings, “that my recent penury would be more attractive to you. Seeing as how my inheritance was a constant source of scorn in school.” 

Whatever dulling effects the alcohol had provided were quickly dwindling at Malfoy’s words. “What are you saying?” Hermione said, feeling stupid. She sat upright, feeling too vulnerable on her back now that Malfoy’s hostility began to drip into the air. 

That was how it was with him, with all the Malfoys. The perfectly exquisite manners that somehow conveyed without words exactly what a Malfoy thought of you. Hermione was used to Harry’s quick rages and Ron’s temporary tempers, they flared up and died down and it was in everybody’s best interests to pretend they had never happened. 

Having grown up around people who said what they thought as soon as they thought it, Hermione was finding it difficult to reconcile with the Slytherin predisposition towards playing it close to the chest. In Malfoy’s quiet containment Hermione found herself much more unsure. And if she really admitted it to herself, a little scared. 

“I didn’t dislike you because of your wealth, if that’s what you’re saying,” Hermione said. “That would be absurd.” 

“When I’m rich again,” Malfoy said, as if he hadn’t heard her at all, “you won’t like me any more than you do now. But money and magic are the only things in this world that matter.” 

Hermione wanted to protest, she felt she _ought_ to protest. But something held her back. Was not her own friend, Harry, favored by people who had never known him, precisely for those two things alone? Of course those who _did_ get to know him fell in love with him for quite separate reasons, but still, something in Malfoy’s words rang true.

“Are you saying I should get over it, then?” Hermione said. Her emotions swirled inside her, mixing with the alcohol until it was an amorphous mass of irrational feeling. She did not, could not, expose herself to Malfoy’s censorious gaze any more than she had already done tonight. 

Before Malfoy could answer, she said, “It’s easy for you, I suppose. Going out to who knows where to do who the hell knows what.” 

She could not seem to stop herself. His expressionless face merely galled her, and her voice rose. “Well, it’s not easy for me! And if you’re saying that when you’ve made your blood money back and we’re sitting in the Malfoy _Manor_ again” - she spat the word - “if - if you’re saying that I won’t care about anything but ‘money and magic’ -” 

And here she started to cry, and because Malfoy saw it and because she knew she sounded utterly deranged now, she cried harder. He was probably right and she did not want him to be right, because her whole life she had believed in something _more._ Whatever that was. It had never been precisely defined. She hadn’t worried about that because it was all going to work out when they won the War. But now they had won and here she was. 

She wiped furiously at her face, but the damage was done. “I hate it here!” she shouted, and she didn’t care if Narcissa, or the Muggles in the village for that matter, heard her. 

Malfoy said something over the intense storm of her emotions, and she forced herself to calm down enough to say “What?” 

“I said it won’t be like this forever.” 

“You keep saying that. Why? How are you so sure? Why don’t you ever say what you think and tell me to go get a job? It drives me mad!” She scrubbed at her face until it burned. “None of you talk about anything.” 

“We’re talking now,” Malfoy said, vaguely bemused. 

“And it’s going _so_ well.” 

“Well, you’ve always been given to high emotion. It’s truly a failing of the Gryffindors.” 

He reached for her hand and pulled it away from her face. “I don't care if you work or not,” he said. “But I think you need something to occupy your mind. Like that Spew thing you did in school.” 

Hermione was too surprised that Malfoy was even aware of her activities during that time to correct him on his pronunciation. She could not think of a single personal fact about him, herself. He liked Quidditch. Or so she assumed because he had played it, and almost as well as Harry. Maybe he had just done it because it was the thing to do. Or Lucius had made him. 

“I don’t want to work for the government,” Hermione said. Her fingers twitched in his hold. She didn’t know what to do. Was she supposed to pull away? 

“That would be preferable to me as well,” he said, giving her a sardonic smile.

It had not escaped Hermione’s awareness that somewhere between the first day of Hogwarts and this immediate moment that Draco Malfoy had become deeply attractive to her. She kept tellng herself that to notice such things was quite beneath her, as it reflected nothing upon his character. If anything it only highlighted how morally bankrupt he really was, because Hermione had remained, throughout her school days, immune to whatever dubious charms he held. 

Back then it had been easy to ignore. They were segregated most of the day and even if Dumbledore had exercised some perverse pleasure out of assigning Slytherins and Gryffindors together for classes, everyone still knew the lines were there. 

That she was noticing these things again and with greater intensity, like the pleasing way his hair fell across his forehead or the shape of his lips, was appalling to her. It suggested a complete degeneration of her own values. When you were Hermione, you didn’t fancy people like Draco Malfoy and you certainly didn’t start wondering what it was like to kiss them. She wasn’t a masochist. 

Apparently Malfoy did not hold the same reservations. He let go of her hand and pushed back some of the wayward tendrils of her hair, and as he did so Hermione’s eyes were drawn to the black gash that marred the pale skin of his forearm.

The Dark Mark. It was still there and while Hermione had tried her best not to think about it, she saw it, from time to time, when Malfoy was changing a shirt, or forgot, and rolled his sleeve up. He almost always wore them down. She tried not to look, usually. It seemed somehow impolite. 

It felt good to be touched, though. The gentle graze of his fingertips on her skin sent a thrilling little chill down her spine. It had been, quite literally, years since someone had touched her this way. Her heart sped up and she wanted to believe it was a reaction to the complete repulsion of his touch. But she kept still. On his pale skin the skull and snake seemed as clear as the first day it was branded on to him. She wondered if he had showed any pain. She could not imagine that he had. 

“Does it hurt?” she blurted out. 

Malfoy didn’t pretend to not know what she was talking about. “Not anymore,” he said. “It used to. All the time. Kind of like a constant sting.” 

“He must have been angry all the time,” Hermione said. 

Malfoy dropped his hand from her face. “Oh, yes,” was all he said, and Hermione was not brave enough to ask anything else regarding that. 

She almost told him everything then. 

She almost said, “I went to Harry’s and he let me read your file and I want to know what that last line in your court records mean. Did you choose me? Why? What are you doing? What’s your plan?” She almost said, “I will tell you everything if you will do the same.” She almost kissed him. 

But the moment in which truths can be revealed is time sensitive and dependent on mutual synchronicity. She had nothing to lose by revealing all, and yet she hesitated, because she was by nature a conservative person and not a gambler. Though she had hung on to the coattails of some of the greatest gamblers Hogwarts had ever produced, it hadn’t really stuck. She’d just done what was necessary. Had _been_ what was necessary at the time. 

And now she didn’t know who she was. Draco didn’t need her like the others had. Hermione wanted him to touch her again, but she couldn’t ask. She half-hoped he would employ that mysterious ability he had of reading her thoughts on her face. 

“You think too much,” Malfoy said. There it was again, that sense of having disappointed him somehow that Hermione had first sensed in Knockturn Alley. “Go to sleep,” he sighed, knowledgeable and resigned. “It’ll all look better in the morning.” 

Her nerves still alight from his touch, she looked at the Mark on his arm and thought, _Not all things_.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione might never have left her bed if it were not for the sound of sizzling bacon and the warm scent of bread wafting up through the floorboards. Her stomach pinched in hunger and she blinked open gummy eyes, feeling sick, achy, and embarrassed. Oh, what had happened? She tried to think, but it was all muddled in her mind, and it hurt besides.

Last night… She had made quite a spectacle of herself. She sat upright, glancing to her side. Of course Malfoy was not there. She could not think of a single time she had woken up and he was still sleeping. He was a surprisingly industrious person. That, or he was smarter at avoiding unpleasant situations.

She crawled to the edge of the loft and looked down. Malfoy, she could handle. But not his mother. To her relief it looked as though it was only Malfoy in the kitchen. Before she could pull back he suddenly looked up, waving a spatula at her. His expression was unreadable.

“Come down,” he said, unsmiling. “You’ve been asleep long enough.”

She might have argued the point, if it were not easier to simply do as she was told. She was also a bit curious as to what, exactly, Draco thought he was doing. Was he wearing an _apron?_

Making sure she was at least somewhat presentable, she performed a quick teeth-cleaning spell and made some effort towards taming her hair. It liked to make mutinous attempts at freedom while Hermione slept. Normally she braided it for bedtime. But, like most of her old habits, that had fallen by the wayside.

She pulled a robe on and climbed down the ladder, feeling shaky. She did not know how to react to Draco now, he had seen too much of her, weepy and drunk. She could not, if she chose, castigate him for his own indiscretions now because he had so ample weaponry at his disposal. And she had given it to him.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” Hermione whispered.

She glanced around, confirming that Narcissa was indeed gone and not skulking in the corners with a scowl. Not that she would have done that, anyway. Narcissa was a finer touch and would have tortured Hermione with her polite elegance until Hermione crumpled into a heap of self-abasement.

“Where is your mother?”

“I asked if she would not mind taking the air in Hogsmeade today. She was happy to oblige me.”

“She always does,” Hermione said, not sure why she sounded so resentful. Her long night had made her tired and depressed, and all she wanted to do was go back to bed and never know another mystery in her life. Let the Malfoys keep their secrets. Hermione would mind her own business from now on.

“Yes,” Draco said, as if he sensed her real meaning behind the words. “Why don’t you sit?” It was a question, but not really. The sort of question you were in danger of if you interpreted it as your own decision.

Hermione sat. She watched with increasing fascination as Malfoy began ladling bacon and homefries on a plate, which he delivered to the table in front of her. “Eat,” he said. “And then we’ll decide what to do.”

That sounded ominous. Hermione’s appetite, which had begun to perk up, quite abruptly floundered, and she felt sicker than before. “Could I have just a glass of orange juice, please,” she said. “Or some strong tea.”

“How strong?” Malfoy said with a smirk.

“Just milk and sugar,” she said meekly.

She watched him begin to prepare the pot. “You -” She licked her lips in confusion, unaccustomed to the sight of the prince of Slytherin in an apron, puttering about the kitchen. She was surprised whenever Malfoy did anything himself, let alone by hand. She had always imagined he had a flotilla of maids and house-elves to attend to his every whim.

“Hm?” Draco said, preoccupied as he cast a fire charm.

“You’re making breakfast?” she said, squinting at him.

“I do that sometimes,” he said.

She had never known him to do it before. She kept her mouth shut, though, unwilling to risk this rather strange tableau from spoiling. Her head pounded. She could only take so many surprises in a twenty-four hour period.

“I am just surprised,” Hermione said. “I am surprised at everything you do.”

“Because you don’t know me,” Malfoy said with the simplicity of gospel. “You weren’t interested in school and you aren’t now.” This, too, was said without any hint of malice or resentment. He was simply stating facts. The sky was blue. The sun was warm. Hermione hated him.

Hermione stamped down the sudden urge to apologize and tell him that no, actually, she had just spent a good deal of her time snooping on his affairs. She really had no reason to say sorry, not for that. She could be civil about last night’s activities. That she was willing to face. But nothing else. What was left of her pride would not allow it.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you and Narcissa,” she said. She picked up a strip of bacon and nibbled on a corner.

“You already said that.”

“Did I?” Hermione frowned, trying to remember. “Well, I still mean it.”

Malfoy dumped eggs on her plate and handed her a cup of strong Irish breakfast tea. “You came home,” he said. “So whatever else happened, there’s that.”

This struck Hermione as a strange thing to say. She looked up at him but there was something, a certain way his head was tilted, an avoidance of his eyes, that shied her away from asking. His jaw was clenched and she reached up suddenly, no forethought at all, and touched his face.

He jerked his head at her touch, but not enough to break free of her fingertips. “What?” he said. “I have something on my face?”

Hermione bit her lip and lowered her eyes, shaking her head. She brought her hand back to the table. “No, I was just - thanking you, I suppose. For looking after me last night.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said. “There’s other ways you can thank me.”

She snapped her gaze back up to his face. His shadow-rimmed eyes were tired but his smile was lazy and knowing. He knew exactly what he had said. Knew exactly what she had thought he meant. She did not know how to take it, and so merely stared, her cheeks flaming. Was he flirting with her?

“I suppose I could,” she muttered fretfully. She wrapped her fingers around the warm porcelain of her tea cup, drawing strength from its heat. She breathed out slowly. “We will have to get to that eventually, won’t we?”

“Well, that kills the mood,” Draco said. “You’re kind of a buzzkill, did you know?”

Hermione didn’t deny it.

He pulled a chair out and sat across from her, his long legs swinging up to rest on the table. He pulled his cigarettes out and lit one. Hermione waited until this ritual was done, knowing he would answer her. He did this, when he needed time. She was beginning to learn these little details about him, the minutiae of the daily life that made up this man she understood so little about.

“I wouldn’t have it as payment, though,” he said, blowing smoke out. He stretched forward and cracked the window open an inch.

“Well, I -” This was not where Hermione had anticipated the conversation going, but she found herself wide awake, and interested in pursuing it. “I would. If - If you wanted me to.”

She must still be drunk. She could not be thinking correctly, and indeed she did not feel in complete control. She felt as if she were in a downward spiral, and the only thing that was keeping her rooted to the spot was Draco’s cloudy, emotionless eyes.

“Would what?” he said. “Have sex with me?”

She was glad that Draco had a tendency towards bluntness when diplomacy no longer served. He was appealing in this way, a bit more heavy-handed than the reputation of Slytherins would suggest.

Hermione nodded, looking back down at her breakfast. She picked up a biscuit and took a tiny bite, more for something to do than because her appetite had returned.

“It must be done,” she said. “You and I are supposed to produce children because of the - the population problems.”

“That’s what the Ministry says.”

Hermione frowned, her mind veering off track at the note of cynicism in Malfoy’s tone. “You don’t think that’s true?”

“I think it’s a good way to keep everyone worried about something,” he said. He flicked ash onto his plate. “Maybe it’s a problem, maybe not.” He shrugged. Watching her digest this, he gave her one of his Cheshire-cat smiles. “You’re too trusting, really. I feel bad for you.”

This was a flavor of the old Malfoy that Hermione had so despised in school. The superiority, the meanness. If he didn’t want to fuck her, he could just say so. She stared hard at the table, determined not to speak to him anymore.

“Well, I’ve made you mad again, haven’t I?” he sighed. He blotted out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot and pulled his legs off the table, sitting upright. Hermione refused to meet his eyes and it was only when his head cocked down, trying to catch her, that she looked up. She wished she hadn’t. He looked so sick of all this. Of her.

“I’m sorry if I was rude,” he said with an elegant inclination of his head. He sounded so formal and gracious and Hermione decided she could not endure this, whatever meaningless platitudes he felt forced to say.

“It’s fine,” she said, her chair screeching on the floor as she pushed it back and stood up. “I don’t feel very well. Thank you for the breakfast.”

She stepped towards the ladder, but as she passed Draco caught her by the hand. It was with the arm bearing the Mark and, like she was addicted to the sight of her own destruction, she had to look, could not suppress the not entirely unpleasant shiver of fear that coiled up her arm at his touch. Hadn’t she gotten enough of it last night?

“Where do you think you’re going?” he said. His tone was friendly, and that scared Hermione more than if he had sounded angry.

“Up to my room,” Hermione said.

“It’s our room, isn’t it?” Malfoy said, moving Hermione’s hand so that she was forced to step backwards.

“Well, that’s what I meant,” Hermione said, twisting her wrist around in Malfoy’s grip.

He held her lightly enough she could have jerked free, even though her wand was upstairs she knew she could escape. But she found, because his touch was light, because he seemed so unnervingly calm, that she did not really want to put up a fight. It was like electricity in her skin. There was something vital and unstable in Malfoy just beneath the surface of his aristocratic veneer and Hermione, fascinated and repelled by it, did not know which way to turn.

“Perhaps we should have that little talk now,” Malfoy said. He released her, leaving no marks on Hermione’s skin but a fading heat. “Sit down.”

_What if I don’t want to?_ the belligerent thought came, more habit than any express desire to be difficult. But if she had thought to say it, one look at Malfoy’s eyes kept the rebellion firmly behind her lips. She rubbed her wrist slowly, trying to decide what her capitulation would cost her. 

She wanted to tell him he wasn’t lord of the manor anymore. But you’d never know that, the way he sat like he was on a throne and not a rickety pine chair.

“Do we need to have a talk?” Hermione said.

“I think so,” Malfoy said. “Don’t you?”

The sight of him as he lit up another cigarette mollified Hermione somewhat. It was his tell, he was always thinking about something he didn’t want to be when he smoked in front of her. Hermione thought he seemed somewhere between angry and nervous. The question of why concerned her less than where he intended to direct the emotion.

Her heel turning, Hermione walked back to the table and sat down. Perhaps there had been whispers of what Hermione had gotten up to last night and had somehow made their way to Malfoy’s ears. Perhaps, like the snake of the House he came from, he was only pretending to be kind. Making her breakfast. Their talk last night. Hermione’s mind started spiraling in a thousand different possibilities, just like a guilt-laden woman’s would.

_I didn’t do anything wrong,_ she told herself. _I’ve a right to know. I only read just a little of those files._

But wasn’t it always that way? Just a peek, you don’t have to open the door the whole way. Oh why not, open it if you have to, but don’t go in. Well, now that you’ve come this far you might as well keep going, hadn’t you?

Malfoy stared at her a long moment and then made a derisive sound. “My God,” he said, “you are a terrible liar. I can only assume you and the idiots-wonder got away with all that stuff in school because Dumbledore favored you.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Hermione said. “Teacher favoritism?”

“Sort of,” Malfoy said.

The small cottage was filling with smoke, making Hermione faintly lightheaded. Maybe this was Malfoy’s attempt to smoke the truth out of her like a fox in his den. She frowned and she fidgeted and she pulled on tendrils of her hair, trying to make them less frizzy, and still Malfoy said nothing.

Finally, she snapped, “Well?”

“I have friends,” Malfoy said and Hermione thought, _That’s debatable_. He went on, “in school. Or well -” he gave a little self-aware twist of his mouth, “I have friends whose concerns revolve around our school. Which is better. And I wanted to know if you wanted a job there.”

This, of any possible topic he could have suggested, was the last Hermione would have guessed. She blinked at him.

“A job?” she said. Her head thudded and her heart gave a funny skip in her chest. Encroaching panic, she was sure.

“Yes.” Malfoy was frowning now, as if he had thought he had bestowed a great gift on her, and was confused as to why she was not clapping. “You don’t have to,” he said. He ground out his cigarette with a little more force than he had the last one. “Of course you don’t have to.”

He stood up, his hands sliding down the front of his slacks. He was still wearing that ridiculous apron. He looked like a baker’s apprentice.

But he wasn’t and Hermione could not imagine him ever doing anything so wholesome and clean. Hermione did not think that, had the opportunities been available to him, he would have chosen the path of least resistance, anyway. He seemed to like that the Ministry had forced him into these dark corners.

She knew he was upset, she didn’t know why, but it was because of her. This notion that she had, however inadvertently, influenced his emotional state gave her a heady lift of power that she had not experienced in a long time. But she didn’t want to use it against him, the feeling was enough, and she did not want to cause more tension in the house than she already had.

“I didn’t say no,” Hermione said. “I just need a moment to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?” Malfoy snapped. “You don’t want to be here, I thought you’d jump at the chance.”

Surprised that this was his motivation, she opened her mouth. “Draco -”

He turned his head back to her when she used his first name, the novelty of it grabbing his attention. She had always liked his name. The Dragon. They were protectors and destroyers, devourer of maidens and misers of gold.

Hermione wondered if anyone ever told him anything nice.

“Thank you for the offer,” she said slowly. She was unsure of who or what he might have done to get her this job. She was hardly qualified for a position there. “Can I have some time to get used to the idea?” she asked, deciding that the wisest course was to appeal to Draco’s vanity of being in control.

That was probably all it was, anyway. He could keep tabs on her at Hogwarts. Not much to get into trouble with there. At least, not anymore.

But Draco came from a people who made their living on lies and he was not so easily manipulated. “You can do whatever you want,” he said. “You always do.”

Without any more interest in her, he walked out of their house. The door slammed behind him. Hermione could see him through the window walking up the hill, his back rigid. She thought about going after him. But that was all she did.


End file.
